9-29-2025 4:01am

The Measure: Cutting Ties

Lesley Misko Editor

Photo by FreePic

by Phil Repko*

We all know we cannot stop the hands of time, right? And yes, we certainly know that the only constant is change. But even when the reminders of our plight are simply omnipresent, the moving on of life can be arduous, and quite possibly traumatizing.

But I need to tell you about how hard it was to part with some simple things, almost worthless, to be honest, at least in terms of utility to me. Oh sure, they had been of some importance in their day, a fact made more compelling by the expanse of years over which they had been accumulated. The first of the collection actually pre-dated my own birth, having been passed down to me by my father, before I started my first taste of professional employment.

In 1982, my father bequeathed to me the remnants and accoutrement of a small but cherished element of one tiny and long-abandoned component of his life. He had started out as an electrician. Oh, and he had tried a veritable smorgasbord of occupations: Auctioneer; handyman; facilities manager; proprietor of X-Lent Car Care, a multi-service auto station. Yet the one engagement that had sustained his interest over the long haul, tending bar, was declared mostly over by the time he turned 50. He said he didn’t think he could stay on his feet, comfortably, for a full shift anymore.

So, he gave me the better part of his collection of dress ties. He held on to his favorites, just in case there was a call to attend a wedding, funeral, dance, or other formal event. But about twenty or thirty of those ties came to me.

For the next 40 years, I maintained and expanded on the assortment, falling in love a bit with the accessories, even if I was never much a fan of ‘dressing up’ for work. The truth is that I didn’t like dress-down days, or blue jean Fridays, or the tightness around my neck. Nevertheless, I felt that I wasn’t creating the proper presentation for the high school students I was teaching - unless I assumed that small measure of formality, the button-down shirt with the double-Windsor knot.

My kids gave me ties for Christmas, and birthdays. As time metastasized, I moved past the standard grey, black, or blue pants that harkened to grade school uniforms at Saint Mary Catholic School. Almost clandestinely, green, brown, and tan became part of the repertoire, as did an ever-widening palette of shirt colors. By the mid-90s, matching ties by shade and pattern to shirt and pants combinations was something of a puzzle, if not a part-time hobby.

For a time, I joined a “tie of the month” club, though the membership was short-lived, as the introductory special ended, and the neckties-per-month became more and more expensive. During this phase, I did improve the collection with some all-time greats, though. A couple from that period will be buried with me, I think.

I had novelty ties, and silk ties. Cotton ties and knitted ties. Some were remarkably wide. Those were from the 1970s. I also had some tremendously skinny ties. These were from a couple of different periods. I had string ties, and a handful of bow ties. I even had an ascot. No one would ever have mistaken me for Lord Byron or Oscar Wilde, but I liked the notion – in my own head – that my personal flourish was so obviously inconspicuous that the audience couldn’t help but notice.

Most fun though, was toying and experimenting with the range of colors and patterns, with special attention paid to combinations of shades within the designs. Oddly, I sometimes bought ties that were only slightly different from one another, even though I purchased them at different stores, in different years, and with disparate motives. For some reasons, those ties decorated with paramecium shapes proliferated.

I retired from public education (for the first time) in 2018. From that simple start in 1982 until that exit, I had worn a shirt and tie, but not religiously, in my public school. From Monday to Friday, beginning in September each year, and ending in mid-June, I measured the process carefully. Tying a necktie was a morning constitutional. I confess without a hint of penance that there was something sacred in the process.

I sometimes stood before a mirror, but for thirty years, the mirror was not even a crutch. The narrow end of the neckwear staged at the button just above the belt-line. The wider part of the tie wrapped once around, then up through the center – but from the rear. One more wrap took the same lead to the other side. The third swing around created the front frame, which brought the top end up through the middle, and then through the frame in the front. The third loop created the dimpled knot. Even when I could complete the process blind-folded, there were usually some skillful tweaks and turns to create the proper crispness.

If done correctly, I could neglect to tie the top button of the shirt, and so keep the fit just a small bit looser than otherwise required. For the brunt of 40 years, the ritual was always done impeccably. It would not have been out of place for me to genuflect and bless myself.

Retirement led to un-retirement a few months later. A two-year stint at a Catholic parochial school was followed by a three-year run as principal of Saint Mary’s, the K-8 school where I first learned to clip on a tie. I then later fashioned the perfect tribute to discipline and respect in dress – the perfect necktie. Consequently, the tie collection never really had a chance to gather any dust. It’s true that by the 2010s, the school uniform in those institutions was a polo and slacks, but ties were de rigueur for Sundays, and for many fundraising events, and open houses.

Professional events weren’t the only catalysts for shirts, ties, and suits, however. Graduations, and celebrations that weren’t limited to work events kept the ties in circulation.

But it’s been three years since there has been any need to craft a double Windsor on a daily basis. In fact, I have completed the sleight of hand fewer than ten times in that tenure. And so, last week I said good-bye to all but a few of my collection.

I have to confess (again?) without an act of contrition, I had a hard time moving on. I know that I will certainly not need any more than the ten or so ties I have kept. I know for a fact that a few of the them have almost zero chance of ever being put into action again. Those are the ones I may take to the great beyond.

The purging was not without consolation, though. It makes me happy that each of my two sons was kind enough to claim ten to twenty ties, though neither works in a field that might require daily application thereof. Perhaps the boys were motivated by sentiment too, after seeing me trudge off to work each day with the colorful nooses round my neck.

This sacrament of bequeathing, which mimicked my own experience, when my father passed me his neckwear, is cause for some emotional pause. It is hard to look into the future and accept that such a heavy portion of my life, and the flair of contriving the professional affect, has run its course. Even after the boys had claimed some ties, and after I held onto a few to lessen the weight for myself, I still had more than 50 ties to re-home.

I should have counted them. It would be nice to know the grand total, in case I need to tell this story with precision, the same way I learned to tie each tie.

When I went to the clothing drop with the pants, shirts, and polos that needed to be graduated from the closet, I accidentally forgot to throw the bag of ties into the bin. I continued to forget for about a week. I even moved the bag of ties from a car I sold, and into the back seat of a pickup that replaced the car. Honestly, it took a while to remind myself to complete the donation process. Maybe the forgetting was Freudian in its slipping from my mind. Maybe it was more a sign of my having lost a step or two.

Cutting ties with the places I’ve been draws focus to the place where I am going.

I was told that not very many people even wear such ties anymore. The days are gone when the flourish of a tie and collared-shirt constitutes a baseline standard for professional comportment. Yes, those days are gone. But I don’t care about the demise of those cultural days. I don’t care that those days are gone. I care that those days are gone for me.

* Phil Repko is a career educator in the PA public school system who has been writing for fun and no profit since he was a teenager. Phil lives with his wife Julie in Gilbertsville and is the father of three outstanding children, two of whom are also poets and writers. He vacillates between poetry and prose, as the spirit beckons, and has published his first book of poetry “Pieces of April” and is currently working sporadically on a novella and a memoir.